


beneath the skin (i take off my face but leave in my heart)

by only_because3



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Natasha centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5198489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_because3/pseuds/only_because3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So much more of her history rests in front of her. This must be more than just her medical file. Dr. Kudrin must’ve taken it all. Natasha briefly wonders how she managed that but it doesn’t matter. Her fingers twitch and she wets her lips. Natasha had never expected to know any truth about herself other than the truths she had after defecting from Russia. At this point, she doesn’t think there’s anything for her to gain from opening the file. She opens it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beneath the skin (i take off my face but leave in my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> This was a labor of love. I saw a post on tumblr ages ago that threw out the possibility of plastic surgery being done to Natasha and it stuck in my mind since then. Seeing the big bang for Natasha on tumblr finally motivated me to sit down and actually explore that. Frankly I feel like I bit off a little more than I could chew, that I wasn't totally competent enough to write something of such scope, but here it is. In addition, there is art to accompany this story which you can find here [here](http://nervouscatcolor.tumblr.com/post/133055165646/beneath-the-skin-i-take-off-my-face-but-leave-in)
> 
> Enjoy!

A knee collides weakly with her ribs. Air barely leaves Natasha’s lungs and she knows that there will only be a faint bruise at the point of contact. Moving faster, Natasha grabs the retreating ankle, twists, and pulls, causing Wanda to fall to the mat. She tries to stand back up but Natasha notices the girl’s twitching fingers, quickly finding a fluid rhythm and plants her barefoot on top of the hand Wanda is using to stand back up. “No magic,” Natasha instructs, firm but calm as she grabs Wanda’s other hand, digging her thumb into bone. Wanda looks uncomfortable, tired, and so Natasha releases her a moment later. “What will you do when it’s not available to you?”

_“You must learn how to continue, how to succeed, even with a broken arm, a broken rib, a broken ankle.” Hands cradle her ankle. Nails dig into her flesh just before her ankle snaps. Natasha gasps soundlessly. “Complete your test now.”_

Softer, Natasha adds, “You must learn how to protect yourself without relying on your powers.”

Wanda takes Natasha outstretched hand, stands. “I don’t always need my hands to -”

“Unless a hugely traumatic event happens to you, you rely on your hands to conjure power,” Natasha points out. “Anyone you fight will pick up on that and use it against you. So, until you can prove to me that you have completely harnessed your powers, you will train in combat like any other SHIELD agent.” Wanda rolls her eyes but nods none the less.

Natasha smiles briefly then clears her throat. “How are you adjusting?” She walks to the far end of the training room, keeping to the carpet despite the fact that no one else is training. She doesn’t check behind her to see if Wanda follows because she’s learned quickly that the witch hasn’t gotten used to being alone. Natasha wonders for a moment if Wanda ever will.

Crossing the threshold into the hydration and recovery room, Wanda answers, “It’s no less strange than the last time you asked.”

Natasha hums, tossing a bottle of water to Wanda and opening one for herself. “Has the noise machine helped?”

After a sip, Wanda says, “A little.” Content to leave it at that, Natasha nods and recaps her bottle. However, Wanda still stares, her fingers moving not to bring forth any power, but to distract herself. Natasha arches an eyebrow, silently giving Wanda the permission she thinks she needs. “You’re originally from Eastern Europe?”

She knows that Wanda is asking purely out of curiosity and the loneliness of being tossed into a land that is not her home. Still, Natasha eyes her carefully before nodding. “Moscow.”

Wanda lets out a heavy sigh, shaking her head. “I don’t like it here," she says bluntly. "It’s so…”

Natasha smirks before Wanda can even finish the sentence. “There’s a lot of ways to end that though and I don’t doubt that I’ll think they’re all correct.”

A rough laugh pulls from Wanda’s throat and Natasha fights her lips from stretching into a sad grin. She remembers clearly just how strange, how unnatural, it seemed to laugh. “Lavish? There is so much excess.” Wanda turns and looks back out into the gymnasium. “Just look at this room.” She sighs again and then lapses into her native tongue. “My orphanage was half the size and crammed full of children. We could have all slept comfortably here.” Finally noticing her slip, Wanda glances at Natasha, no doubt to translate, but Natasha agrees with her before she can open her mouth.

“I’m still not used to everything myself and it’s been years,” Natasha answers in the language Wanda has known since she was a child, amused at the way Wanda’s eyes widen.

“You know Romanian?”

Natasha shrugs and pulls her hair off the back of her neck. “I’m well versed in a lot of languages. Not that it would've been particularly hard for me to translate given the Slavic influences.” Moving the elastic band from her wrist to her fingers, Natasha secures a bun on the back of her head.

Wanda nods thoughtfully before adding, “Not that this isn’t nice. It is nice to not want but…”

“This could’ve gone a long way back home with all the money that went into this,” Natasha finishes for her.

Excess was something Natasha knew in Russia. She was trained to glide across a room, draped in fur, adorned in jewels, balancing flawlessly in couture, all while muffling the hard outlines of guns and knives beneath her dresses. She stomached caviar and veal, acquired a taste for top shelf vodka. But when the missions ended, she returned to base, to a blank room with only five plain outfits to her name, eating whatever was put in front of her because that was the only food she would get.

SHIELD does not offer filet mignon or brand name clothes but there are still so many choices that, to women like her and Wanda, it still seems like too much.

\--

The lock on the front door rattles. She starts to tense, her body naturally preparing for a fight, but with a deep breath, Natasha relaxes. It’s probably the boys. She doubts anyone attempting to kill her would be stupid enough to use the front door.

Toweling her hair dry, Natasha pads into the living room just as Steve steps in, Sam right behind him. “You two are back earlier than I thought you’d be.”

“We got close,” Sam says before Natasha can even ask. She notices that Sam leaves a certain amount of space between himself and Steve. He waits until Steve sets his bag down and moves into the kitchen before he drops his own bags and shuts the door.

Natasha stands a little straighter and watches from the other side of the bar as Steve methodically moves in their shared space. Two waters are pulled from the fridge and Steve downs one quickly, putting the other under his arm. Next he grabs a bunch of bananas from the bowl between them, not once looking at her. “Actually got close enough to see him with naked eyes,” Sam adds. When she looks at him, his body hunched as he rests his elbows on the end of the bar, he glances back and she can see how exhausted he is, more lines around his eyes then he left with, his features just a little more sunken. Sam puts his eyes back on Steve so she does the same, looking at their friend search the cupboards wordlessly until he pulls out a jar of peanut butter. “I bet the next time we’ll be able to talk to him.”

Steve nods, the jar joining the water under his arm. “He’s letting us get closer,” he says after a moment, stopping for the first time in who know’s how long. His jaw is tight, even as he wears a small smile.

Natasha knows just how much that hurts.

“Congrats then,” Natasha says plainly. “Maybe soon you can concentrate on this little project we’ve taken on.” Steve’s face relaxes despite the fact he glares at Natasha. A cat’s grin forms on her face as she looks at Sam, happy to see Sam more at ease now that Steve is. “I’m starting to feel a bit like a single mother here.”

“Does this make me your child,” Sam chimes in. That gets a laugh out of Steve and Natasha inwardly sighs.

“I’m eating, and then I’m sleeping,” Steve states, grabbing an apple for good measure. “I’ll make up a work schedule once I remember what it’s like to be well rested.”

“Night, buddy,” Sann says as Steve passes him.

Natasha waits until she hears the click of Steve’s bedroom door before she stands. “This completely fruitless mission is draining him.”

Sam hangs his head. “You think I don’t know that?”

She passes Sam and heads to the oven, pulling a frying pan out. “Have you said anything to him?”

Sam takes the seat Natasha vacated, the air completely escaping him as he does so. “You really think he’s going to stop looking now that Peggy’s gone?”

Natasha pulls the carton of eggs from the fridge, popping it open as she sets them down on the counter. “No, I don’t,” she answers honestly. “But the soldier doesn’t want to be found. If he did, you would’ve confronted him already.”

Sam throws his hands up. “You tell that to Steve then, Natasha.” She grabs five eggs from the carton and takes them over to the hot buttered pan. “You’re not gonna crack them right in are you?”

She looks at him over her shoulder, finding him already moving towards her. “Of course I am. Why would I dirty a bowl for scrambled eggs?” He tries to take the eggs from her, mutters something about getting fluffier eggs, but she keeps them close to her chest. “Sam, you’ve just traveled at least 10 hours. Let me make you subpar scrambled eggs so I can convince you to stop all this.”

“Convince Steve,” he says, grimacing as Natasha cracks each egg into the pan.

“You don’t always have to go with him,” Natasha returns as she stirs the eggs.

Sam scoffs. “I’m not letting Steve go down this rabbit hole alone.”

Natasha sighs, more tired now than she is relieved. “Does Steve even have a plan? The man he’s going to find isn’t going to be Bucky. It won’t be like it was with Peggy.”

Sam shrugs before getting out a plate and two forks. “He’s going to try and show him who he was before.”

She shakes her head. Steve is a man made up of good intentions but he’s not stupid. “There’s no going back to that. Steve _knows_ that.”

“You’re right,” Sam concedes, holding the plate out so she can fill it. “But he still deserves a chance to learn what kind of human being he was… Give himself a soul instead of just being a weapon.”

Setting the pan down, Natasha looks up at Sam with a furrowed brow. “Why learn about before when he’s already starting to become someone now? The past… It doesn’t matter anymore.”

_“You are the perfect weapon,” she’s told with a bright smile, a soft hand on her sore cheek. “You will do more for the motherland than a thousand armies, Natalia.”_

“Is this why you haven’t followed your tip?” Natasha looks at Sam sharply and it must be a look he hasn’t seen before because he takes a step back, even as he holds a fork out to her.

“That is exactly why,” she says.

\--

_It’s thrilling to watch Laura work._

_Most of the morning has been spent with soft smiles and nice conversation with customers and that in itself is so different than Natasha’s day to day that it is fascinating to watch. This is the first time Natasha has accompanied Laura to the local farmer’s market, local in this case being 45 minutes away from the Barton farm, so that Laura can sell this week’s batch of eggs, honey, and goat’s milk._

_A man, one who reads like he lives in the city, has been complaining to Laura for the past few minutes and Natasha stares unabashedly from behind her sunglasses as Laura squares her shoulders, hands raising to rest on her hips. “So, you’re telling me every single egg was rotten,” Laura asks, staring up at the man with the confidence of someone staring someone down._

_When he nods, Natasha grins. “Now I know you weren’t here last weekend but-”_

_“But my husband was,” Laura agrees. “But something tells me you wouldn’t be accusing me of this if he were here today. I am the one who personally spot checks every single nest before the eggs are put together for packaging. I have not found a single spoiled egg since last October and have not had a single complaint about any of my products ever.” Laura takes a step closer, her boots sinking into the still damp grass. The man steps back as she does so and Natasha licks her lips so that she does not grin wider. “Do you still want to tell me that you bought a dozen bad eggs?”_

_The man audibly gulps and, cheeks blooming red, walks away._

_Natasha laughs as she packs up the remaining honey. “I’m so glad I joined you today,” she muses._

_Laura smiles, running a hand through her long hair, fingers stopping to work out a tangle. “Glad I could entertain you over eggs.”_

_The ride back to the farm is comfortable, the two women talking casually about everything and nothing. It’s a type of normal that Natasha so rarely gets. She’s once again struck by how lucky she is to have Laura in her life._

_Turning down the long dirt road to the house, the women spot a car neither recognize. Though Natasha feels herself tense for a moment, it passes quickly, any fear that they’ve been discovered quelled when she sees Nick sitting on the porch, Lila pressed into his side. The little girl looks curiously over at the dark haired woman across from Nick and Natasha knows Lila must be itching to climb into Nick’s lap._

_Clint comes out, handing who Natasha now realizes is Melinda a bottle of water before waving at them. Before Natasha has the chance to approach her, Melinda is walking down the stairs. “I didn’t realize you’d be coming so early,” Natasha says, closing the truck door behind her._

_“I was in the area,” Melinda responds, clearing her throat. “Allowed me to catch up with Fury as well.”_

_“And meet my monsters,” Laura adds as she rounds the pick up. “I hope they didn’t bombard you with questions.”_

_Melinda smiles but it is tight around the edges. “They were fine,” Melinda says politely. Once Laura leaves, Melinda pulls a thumb drive from her pocket and holds it out. “This is all I could find about the Red Room. There’s a few files about the KGB agents you recall working with though I couldn’t verify if they were connected to the RR. Hopefully it’ll point you in the right direction.”_

Natasha opens her eyes, her hands clutching the sheet she’s wrapped up in. She’s not sure what time it is but it still feels early and so she allows herself to relax, taking deep, steady breaths. She sits slowly, staring at the blank walls of her room. Like most places she’s kept, it is impersonal. Her clothes are uniformly hung in her closet, neatly folded in drawers. There is a desk with only a calendar and a single pen on it. She has one bedside table, next to the side she sleeps on, with a single plain lamp on it. In the drawer, she keeps her tablet and cell phone, next to the very first pictures Cooper and Lila ever drew her. Beneath that, is the flash drive Melinda gave her and where it has sat, untouched, since she received it. She stares at it until there’s a knock on her door.

She closes the drawer as she stands from the bed, pads over to the door and sees Steve on the other side. “What can I do for you,” she says when she opens the door, taking in that he’s already in his work out gear. He’s probably already been out for a run by himself.

“I know that I said I’d make up a schedule,” he starts and she leans into her door, feeling the cool metal on her skin. “But-”

“Another tip,” she finishes for him. Steve nods and he looks apologetic, his eyes soft and his hands twitching like he’s not sure what to do with them. “Why do you keep doing this, Steve?” He looks surprised by the question and she’s worried for a moment that she has upset him, but she is tired herself and tired for Steve and tired for Sam. “Why are you so insistent on finding him when you know he’s not ready to be found?”

Steve exhales, his eyes dropping to the floor before he looks back up at her. With a shrug and a sad smile he tells her simply, “He’s Bucky.”

Natasha shakes her head. “Steve… He’s not Bucky anymore.”

Steve shrugs again. “That doesn’t stop me from caring.” He scratches at the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I don’t expect you to understand, Natasha. I just, I can’t walk away.” There’s a promise then that he’ll focus on the new Avengers soon and then he’s going down the hall and turning into Sam’s room.

Natasha returns to her bed, sitting down on the edge and opening her bedside drawer again. This time she picks up the flash drive, holds it between her fingers, rests it in the palm of her hand.

She is not scared of what she’ll find. She knows enough about her past to know that the information will be cruel and ugly and red. She knows that it is unlikely she’ll ever find out more about her parents who, like Wanda’s, died when a building came down on them. She knows that even if she does find information on her family, that it will mean nothing to her; unlike Wanda, she was an infant when they died, leaving her with no real connections other than blood.

Natasha wonders if that even counts since she has bathed in so much blood in her life.

She takes a deep breath and fists the flash drive.

“It doesn’t matter,” she repeats. She doesn’t want revenge, she is not looking for a lost connection. Any information this flash drive holds does not matter to who she is now.

It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.

Yet she squeezes tighter, feels the edges push into her skin.

\--

Natasha finishes switching out the license plates on the car as Wanda pulls out the mititei from the cooler she packed that morning. When Natasha gets back in the car, Wanda hands her one of the small sliders. “This was one of the first things my mother taught me to cook,” Wanda tells her. “I didn’t get very many opportunities to cook it but it was always a treat, when we could find the meat.” Natasha knows the ‘we’ Wanda refers to is herself and Pietro. The younger girl has not said his name since they put the boy to rest but Natasha has noticed just how close Wanda is getting now.

Natasha unwraps her sandwich as she pulls back on the road and takes a small bite. It is delicious and she tells Wanda so, happy to see a tiny smile on the witch’s face. They eat in silence until Wanda opens a pickle jar and Natasha asks for one quickly. There’s no label on the jar and when Natasha bites into the crisp, pickled cucumber, she is met with the taste of freshness. “You pickled these yourself,” she says more than she asks and Wanda nods. Smiling Natasha takes another bite. “Were you raised on these?”

Wanda nods, munching on her own pickle. “We had to make the vegetables last through winter.”

Natasha licks her fingers of the sour juices left behind by the pickle. “Sometimes I got tired of eating pickled cabbage and tomatoes, but never the cucumbers,” Natasha admits, pulling another pickle from the jar when Wanda offers. “It was probably the only thing I enjoyed growing up.”

_Natalia stands in line among the other girls, watching her tray get scoops of food that she will stomach but not enjoy. At the end of the assembly line, a pickle is added to the tray and her mouth begins to water. She cannot remember the last time they had pickles._

_She eats everything else on her plate with gusto and then savers each and every bite of the pickle, wishing that she could have another. They are not allowed to share though, and she watches enviously as other girls barely touch their own._

Wanda recaps the jar and puts it into the cooler. “You can have the rest of the jar.” Natasha begins to protest but Wanda shakes her head. “As thanks for driving me out here and talking to Agent Barton.”

“You better stop with that Agent Barton business now. Clint is Clint at home,” Natasha reminds her. “And, really, there’s no need to thank me. He’ll be putting you to work while you’re there.”

“Perfectly fine with me.” Wanda reclines in her seat, putting her feet up on the dashboard. “With you leaving and Captain Rogers and Sam already gone, I’d like to keep busy. Plus there are the children. It’s been so strange to not be around children…”

“You’ve been away from kids for a while now. Strucker took you well over a year ago.”

Wanda hums, nodding a little. “But I was able to go back to the orphanage, so long as Pietro stayed at the camp. I would help some of the younger ones sneak out and steal them treats while we were out.” Natasha glances over and sees Wanda smiling sadly. “I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by children,” Wanda states and there is a warmness in her voice that Natasha can not relate to, despite having been surrounded by children her entire life when she was Wanda’s age.

_“Enjoy the silence,” Natasha is told, the door to the room she shared with three other girls closed and locked behind her. She is 14 and is sleeping alone for the first time, the blood of her roommates under her fingernails, their lifeless bodies, for all Natasha knows, left in the training hall. She is the victor, or so she has been told._

“I think that is why I followed Strucker.” Natasha looks at Wanda curiously for a moment before putting her eyes back on the road. “Instead of watching children I knew, people I knew, get taken or killed, I could help them. I could do more than just get killed myself… Join the war instead of becoming an innocent casualty.”

There’s a soft sigh from Wanda and then she leans forward to turn up the radio. Enough sharing between them today, Natasha thinks, as Wanda settles into her seat, eyes closing.

She thinks about what Wanda said for the rest of the drive to the Barton farm. She thinks about what she would have been like had it not been for the Red Room taking her in. She’d be different, things would be different, but she would have still been a fighter. In a country at war with itself, in a country at war with everyone else, Natasha would have still gotten blood on her hands and dirt under her nails.

She and Wanda would not have been very different at all, Natasha thinks, in a different kind of life.

\--

Natasha sits down at the table in the kitchen and closes her eyes. Laura and Clint are behind her, laughing about something as they cook side by side. Wanda, who has been so quickly accepted by this family, is to her left, looking over Lila’s spelling pages, and Cooper is to her right, scribbling away at his homework, the pencil scratching rough against the paper just like how Clint writes. Nathaniel wiggles against her shoulder and she turns her head to the side just enough so that she can inhale his scent, a mixture of soap and wipes and powder. This house always feels full, always feels warm. This is the first place she thinks could be referred to as home and it’s not even hers.

“Mom, how do you spell Aunt Sheila’s name again,” Cooper asks. Natasha glances down at the big sheet of paper in front of him, his family tree project, as Laura spells out her sister’s name.

He writes it on the line next to Laura’s carefully, smiling to himself and nodding when he’s done. He moves to the other half of the paper and, on the line next to Clint’s, writes out B-A-R-N-E. “Add a Y, Coop,” Natasha tells him and he mutters quietly about how much he hates silent letters.

He pushes his hair, grown out from the last time she’s seen him, away from his eyes. She smiles when he writes her name down without any help. “Auntie Nat, do you have brothers or sisters too? Do I have to put them on my family tree?”

Natasha can feel Clint pause behind her. “Technically I shouldn’t be on there because your dad isn’t my brother, so, no, you don’t put any of my family on there.”

Cooper side eyes her. “Brother or not, you are on the tree,” he states authoritatively.

Natasha feels her smile grow again and she reaches over to ruffle his hair affectionately. He tries to bat her hand away but she’s too fast, grabbing his smaller hand in hers. “I rarely get to come out, Coop, let me mess up your hair while I can.”

He sighs. “Can I have a piece of candy from your secret stash,” he asks, voice low and eyes darting between her and his sister.

“Deal.” He squeezes her hand, firmly shaking it once before putting it back on his head. She runs her fingers through his hair, fixing the mess she made, and then scratching lightly at his scalp. He continues filling in the names of his grandparents, content, but Lila is looking at her expectantly. “Yes?”

“You didn’t answer Cooper’s question,” she says. Natasha shakes her head, licks her lips. She’s not sure if all kids are so perceptive at this age, or if Lila is like her father, noticing and remembering everything.

“I have a sister. Yelena," Natasha says carefully. “But we don’t like each other very much.”

Lila nods. “Like Daddy and Uncle Barney.”

“Exactly.” Natasha can see how many more questions are swirling around in Lila's head, her curiousity growing about her aunt. Both kids have gotten to the age where they remember things, where they want to learn things about those around them, and Natasha mentally sags at the thought that she has no real past to share with these children she holds so dear. She could teach them how to protect themselves, could tell them about how when she was their age, she had none of the amazing things they do. When they ask questions, she could bite her tongue and shake her head, tell them softly that when they are older and that when she is older still, she will tell them everything they want to know about their Auntie Nat. She will remain mysterious and guarded to these children who love her unconditionally which is safe but not the kind of adult she wants to be around these kids.

“Enough family talk,” Clint says, coming to the table, giant salad bowl in his hand. “It’s time for dinner." His hand lands on her shoulder, squeezing the strong flesh, and when she looks up at him, he searches her face with a careful smile. Natasha takes a deep breath and nods just enough to let Clint know she's okay.

\--

Just past one am, Clint walks on to the porch, wrapped up in a hoodie and each hand holding on to a cup of steaming tea.

The baby, her gorgeous namesake, has been fussy and Natasha wouldn’t have blamed Clint for using any time that Nathaniel is sleeping to get some sleep himself. But, like so few before him, Clint makes Natasha a priority, and she scoots over on the porch swing for him to settle down next to her.

“Thank you,” she says, accepting the mug of tea offered to her, the one she came onto the porch with forgotten at her feet.

Clint throws an arm around her shoulders and she takes a deep steady breath when he requests, “Talk to me, Tasha.”

She presses her palms around the sides of her cups, wishing it would warm her cold bones. “I thought I would come out here and find myself content,” she admits. “That I would remember why I hadn’t gone after dead pasts in the first place.” She glances at Clint, his eyes tired and creased. He sips his tea and Natasha knows that it’s not fatigue that is leaving him silent; Clint won’t fill the silence they both know she needs to fill herself.

With a sigh, Natasha lets her head drop backwards until it rests on Clint’s forearm. “But I know nothing… It shouldn’t matter, _doesn’t_ matter, but I couldn’t even do that project of Cooper’s. I don’t know my mother’s name, my father’s…” She looks at Clint again and he just stares back at her, face soft but neutral. “Your damn kids will ask me too many questions I’ll have to answer eventually too,” she finishes in Russian. It doesn’t produce the laugh she expects.

“Don’t do this for them,” he tells her. “If you do this, do this for you. We both have complicated lives and one day, we’ll have to give them complicated answers. Simple as that.”

Natasha frowns and sits up straight. “It is because of this messy life of mine that I don’t want to do that to them. Simple would be nice, would it not?”

“It would be,” he concedes. “But things aren’t simple. Even for normal people.”

He’s right. Simplicity, like perfection, is rarely achieved, rarely granted.

The wind whips up, curling around her body and pulling strands of hair from her loose ponytail. They sit in silence then, drinking their tea until it’s almost gone. Clint should sleep but he is stubborn, determined to wait her out. She finishes her tea, fingernails toying with the string of her tea bag as she asks, “If you could, would you erase the bad memories of your parents?” Clint downs the contents of his cup in one, fluid gulp and then, quite assured, tells her no. “Why not?”

He shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck where his wrinkled tag is exposed. “I like to think that it’s what brought me here. That living through what I did made me realize the kind of man I wanted to be, the kind of father… The kind of friend,” he says, squeezing her shoulder. “You’re already a good person though, Natasha.”

She’s not, but it’s nice of him to say it.

“Despite not knowing, you are a good person,” Clint repeats. “A good friend. A good aunt.” He smiles, so genuine and pure, and the only thing she can think to do is shake her head.

“Thanks, _Dad_ ,” she drawls, finally getting a chuckle from him. The moment feels lighter but she still weighs heavy.

\--

_The room is made up of cream walls and, unlike the one she stayed in before, only holds two beds, each on opposite sides of the room. There is no closet, no desk, nothing else but a single dresser with four drawers. Each occupant may have two which Natasha found excessive at first. Having only had three outfits when she was placed in this room, a field outfit, a pair of pajamas, her uniform, and three pairs of undergarments, everything fit perfectly in one drawer. She remembers Madame B standing in the doorway, much like she is now, offering two extra uniforms and an extra field outfit._

_Only this time they are not for Natasha, but this blonde girl sitting on Annuska’s bed. She is almost as tall as Natasha but not quite as developed, her uniform laying flat in most places. Natasha glances at Madame B who stares only at the blonde and so Natasha doesn’t say anything, just continues to wrap her sprained ankle until the girl takes the clothes and Madame B leaves._

_“Who are you,” Natasha asks, noting the English workbook Natasha finished two years ago next to her. The blonde doesn’t even look at her as she opens the dra-_

_The room is made up of cream walls and, unlike the one she stayed in before, only holds two beds, each on opposite sides of the room. There is no closet, no desk, nothing else but a single dresser with four drawers and a first aid kit so that they may tend to their feet. The academy does not allow for them to have any distractions; their minds must be focussed on their dances at all times._

_There’s a blonde girl sitting on Annuska’s bed and Natasha does not ask where she went. Her form had been bad, her ankles weak. She was not up to the academy’s standards._

_“Who are you,” Natasha asks, noting the performance pointe shoes, white and worn in, looped around the bedpost of the blonde’s bed. The slippers do not compare to Natasha’s. Hers, made up of red and black and silk, she has been awarded for being the bes-_

_Lined in dark, ornate wood, the training room appears small but it gives the girls ample room to spar. Their trainers watch from the sidelines, next to the small table where supplies are normally kept. For this fight, her first with Yelena, they’ve removed everything. Only their wits and their flesh may be used against one another._

_Yelena pulls at Natasha’s hair, a tactic used only because she is weak, unable to dominate Natasha any other way. With the hand that is not pinned behind her back, Natasha turns, feeling hair being pulled from her scalp, and uses her palm to break Yelena’s nose. The blonde stumbles back, releasing Natasha completely. If she hadn’t been told not to kill or irreversibly injure this one, she would’ve blinded Yelena with her nai-_

_Lined in dark, ornate wood, the practice room appears small but gives the girls ample space to train. Their teachers watch from the sidelines as they stand, one in front of the other, at the barre, their legs extended in third arabesque. She cannot see Yelena’s face but Natasha doesn’t doubt that she is smug, thinking her position to be perfect. Natasha catches Madame B’s eye and with a curt nod, returns to standing position._

_Coming up to Yelena’s side, Natasha forcibly corrects Yelena’s posture. Natasha’s nails dig into Yelena’s skin and hol-_

_There is a new trainer, a man Madame B only refers to as soldier. Their superiors tell them nothing about him, never tell them when he will be joining training sessions. He doesn’t speak, rarely grunts during their sparring matches, and is never dressed in anything but his field suit. Natasha suspects that his arm is not a device he slips on but Yelena says that it must be._

_Natasha knows that noticing the difference is why she is still head widow._

_Through careful exchanges with other widows, Natasha learns that she and Yelena are the only two to have met the soldier. It is a privilege they have been given and so when they train with the soldier, who leaves them broken and bloody, Natasha bows her head to him before leaving the training room._

_Last week, he snapped Yelena’s left arm at the elbow. Natasha brushes Yelena’s hair unt-_

_There is a soldier that doesn’t speak who trains them from time to time. Their superiors say nothing when Natasha manages to take him to the ground, only bloody and bruised instead of brok-_

_Natasha is chosen as prima and her cheeks ache from smiling. She knows this means even more time in her slippers but i-_

_She has disgraced her title. She allowed the target to get too close, allowed them to hurt her more than she can bear. Natasha puts a bullet between the target’s eyes and then looks at her legs. Ankles both broken, her feet contorted, she does not know how to get out until the soldier picks her up roug-_

_With her ankles broken, she is replaced by Yelena. “It is okay, Natalia,” Madame B tells her. “Your ankles will be stronger now, like marble. Everything you could ever want will be yours.” Madame B squeezes her wrapped ankle. Natasha has been trained to never show pain but this time she feels her eyebrows twitch, her jaw locking. It hurts to push the action down. “So long as you don’t let Yelena take what is your-”_

_Natasha is put in the training room with Yelena. Her superiors give her no warnings, no restrictions. Yelena has gotten better since their first fight, though it is likely too that she has simply learned Natasha’s weak points._

_The small table is filled with weapons and Yelena chooses a dagger. Natasha takes no weapon because she does not need one. She is stronger now. Made of marble._

_Natasha grabs Yelena’s arm when the blonde tries to swipe at her thigh. Natasha could go for Yelena’s elbow, the one the soldier broke, the one that didn’t heal quite right. Instead she punches Yelena directly in the ear. Yelena gasps, a strangled cry following. Natasha knows she ruptured the ear dr-_

_She has beaten so many dancers for this titl-_

_She has killed so many widows for this titl-_

\--

There is a house in El Cantor that has not been touched in over twenty years. That fact alone is not entirely special; Formosa Province is small compared to the rest of Argentina and it remains one of the poorest. A couple lived there and cultivated cotton on the two surrounding hectares until the man’s wife died. Nobody seems to remember what the man did after that but Natasha supposes it doesn’t really matter. He lasted ten more years before collapsing on the side of the road.

Natasha drags the back of her hand across her forehead and, on instinct, looks around her. There’s no one around, no other houses she can see. She’d been walking for hours and cannot remember the last time she saw someone else.

The door has fallen off its hinge, has settled against sagging walls. Natasha shoulders the door twice before it gives, scraping along the dirt floor. Stale air and mildew waft out of the home and Natasha wrinkles her nose as she peeks in through the gap she’s created. It is a plain, outdated home. There is nothing special and no evidence of any traps set. Still, she squeezes her way in through the opening rather than breaking the door down completely.

Natasha stands, just inside the home, and closes her eyes. It’s entirely possible the man, whose name she doesn’t know, got rid of his wife’s records after her death. It’s likely, too, that Dr. Kudrin disposed of the records herself before her death, before she even left Russia. Kudrin was not a soldier though, not a strategist. She was a geneticist, a proud one at that. Melinda had come to the same conclusion in her notes that Natasha did while reading over the files. Kudrin would not have destroyed the papers that illustrated the greatness she had been able to achieve.

Still, this whole journey could be for naught. This house, barely standing in the middle of nowhere, could hold nothing for her. Another dead end.

There’s a hallway to the right of her, leading to three doorways. One, a rudimentary bathroom, the other a bedroom. From her position she can see the foot of the bed, a small table with a mirror angled towards the ceiling, a jewelry box propped open. The final doorway is clearly an office, something that she doesn’t believe would be common in many houses out on land like this.

Another table greets her, this one littered with papers. Upon inspection, she deems them worthless to her. The file cabinets, so out of place in this room, in this house, are calling out for her to open them. Surely, Natasha thinks, it can’t be this easy.

She grips the handle of the drawer at the level of her stomach and pulls. It creaks, the sound of metal scraping against the metal causing Natasha to run her tongue over her teeth. There, stuffed in the drawer, she finds papers that should’ve long ago been burnt. She moves to the top drawer, yanks it open. More papers. More files. Each and every drawer, stuffed to the brim with old Red Room papers, details on so many widows (not all of them though. Natasha knows there’s not nearly enough papers here for that). There’s names of girls she thinks she remembers and mission briefs that she knows she’s heard before, but just from a different perspective.

This feels like something that’s too much for just her shoulders to bear but there’s no one now that she can report this to, the world too caught up in its own web to care about a few Russian girls.

Her fingers, still skimming the tops of files, stop on the faded tab that bears her last name in her native alphabet. She pulls it out, lays it flat though the edges curl upwards. It’s thicker than most, something that reminds her she was one of the best.

So much more of her history rests in front of her. This must be more than just her medical file. Dr. Kudrin must’ve taken it all. Natasha briefly wonders how she managed that but it doesn’t matter. Her fingers twitch and she wets her lips.

Natasha had never expected to know any truth about herself other than the truths she had after defecting from Russia. At this point, she doesn’t think there’s anything for her to gain from opening the file.

She opens it anyway.

There is a picture of a girl that Natasha has never seen before. Like Natasha, she has red hair, but everything else is different. The nose is wider than Natasha’s, a bit downturned at the tip. The chin is more prominent, jutting out further than her own. The lips are thinner too, and this girl’s brow sits heavy over her eyes. The files have obviously been mislabeled, no doubt to throw off anyone who goes looking like she did, but then Natasha flips a page and there _is_ a picture of her, albeit nearly ten years younger than she is now. Her stomach lurches and her eyebrows knit together in confusion and… worry? Should she be worried about this other girl? She pulls the photo of the other girl out from underneath the paperclip and sets it next to her own. Seeing them side by side highlight the differences but one thing stands out; their eyes are the same. This girl is younger than the photo of Natasha too but they could have been taken at different times.

She doesn’t know what any of this means.

She swallows hard as she takes the file and moves to sit with her back against the wall to read it.

In one go, she reads the entire file. All 207 pages of her life between the ages of 4 and 21. Along with more blood to coat her skin, she discovers who she is looking at in the first picture. At 16, she underwent a series of surgeries that resulted in three things: the removal of her uterus, the reduction of her breasts, and a complete facial reconstruction.

Natasha stands, putting the file on the top of the cabinet once she’s firmly on her feet. She smoothes down her tank top that is damp with sweat and wipes her hands on her cargo shorts as she makes her way into the hall. Natasha takes the first right and promptly vomits into the toilet.

\--

_She wakes in the infirmary._

_Her entire body hurts, from her scalp down to her toes. She doesn’t remember what happened or why she’s here. She looks to the left and there is Yelena, crouched down next to the bed, the top of her blonde head and her blue eyes the only thing Natasha can see through blurred vision. “What happened,” she whispers. Yelena says nothing but her eyes move quickly, mapping out what’s in front of her. Natasha doesn’t have it in her to repeat the question._

_She goes to close her eyes when Yelena touches her hand, a single fingertip resting against her palm. “You weren’t on a mission,” Yelena tells her._

_The door opens and the soldier enters. Natasha thinks she sees Madame B in the doorway but she can’t be sure. The soldier grabs Yelena, doesn’t wait for her to get to her feet, and drags her out of the roo-_

_Natasha wakes in the infirmary._

_Her entire body hurts, from her scalp down to her toes. She doesn’t remember what happened or why she’s here. She looks to the left and there is Yelena, crouched down next to the bed, the top of her blonde head and her blue eyes the only thing Natasha can see through blurred vision. “What happened,” she whispers. Yelena says nothing but her eyes move quickly, mapping out what’s in front of her. Natasha doesn’t have it in her to repeat the question._

_She goes to close her eyes when Yelena touches her hand, a single fingertip resting against her palm. “You were on a mission,” Yelena tells her. “The soldier could not get to you in ti-”_

_The soldier is the only one to train with her now. Natasha suspects it is to make sure she recovers from her injuries fully. Her superiors know that the soldier will push her, will make her better._

_He speaks to her once. His voice is rough, quiet. He looks her directly in the eye and says-_

\--

She can’t look at herself.

She throws a towel over the mirror in the bathroom. She turns the small tv in her room around so that it faces the wall. She avoids the windows.

She doesn’t sleep. When she closes her eyes all she can see is the picture taken of her as a child. She thinks about how this face, this body, isn’t hers.

The Red Room had taken everything from her. She spent years trying to reclaim herself. Even if she was in control of her life now, this body is still theirs. She can never escape them.

She spends two days pouring over the files in her hotel room. On the third day, the door opens and she raises her gun but is unsurprised to see the man standing with his hands raised, the metal of his left arm glinting in the light. “Do you remember,” Natasha asks him forcibly, her voice thick and her words that of her native tongue. Her soldier, Steve’s Bucky, nods.

Scooting to the edge of the bed, Natasha stands, her gun still poised at the soldier in her room. “ _What_ do you remember?” The soldier’s eyes dart to the single chair in her room and back to her. Natasha shakes her head. “You’ve broken into my room and you expect me to treat you like a guest just because you’re not currently trying to kill me?”

The soldier lets out a breath. “I remember you from before.” Natasha narrows her eyes. “I remember training you,” he continues and his voice sounds so much like the one she remembers. “I remember telling you to leave.”

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek until blood hits her tongue. “Strip.” It feels strange to be the one to give the soldier orders when she took his for so long.

He looks at her confused and she arches an eyebrow. “If you expect to learn anything from me, I need to make sure the only weapon you have on you is-” He nods again before she finishes and Natasha falls silent. When he stands nude in front of her, she lowers her gun. She throws him a pillow to cover himself and then sits back down on the edge of the bed. “How did you know about the files?”

With the pillow placed on his lap, the soldier sits on the floor. His shoulders are hunched and he is so much leaner than Natasha remembers. There is still muscle there but it is obvious that this man in front of her is on the run. His hair is tangled, greasy, and partially shielding his tired, sunken eyes from her. “I got a lead,” he answers simply. “And when I saw you in the city, I knew that you must’ve been after them too.”

“There is no file on you,” she says. “Only other widows.”

Using his metal hand, her soldier pushes his hair out of his face. There are so many more lines on his face then she remembers. Natasha wonders briefly if she would look more like that if not for the work done to her. “I must be mentioned in other files… Yours.”

She leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “Those files say nothing. I could tell you more based on what I’ve learned in SHIELD.” Her mouth stretches into something like a grin. “Steve could tell you more.”

“You can tell me things no one else knows. Things I can’t learn about anywhere else.” His fingers flex and grip the pillow. It makes her sit a little straighter. “I don’t remember very much but I do remember you. You are the only widow I trained with.”

Before, she would have doubted her own memory. Her entire past is covered in a haze, with only brief moments of clarity. She is sure of Yelena training with her and the soldier, the files confirming that. If he doesn’t recall Yelena, then that means she won’t be dragged back into any of this mess.

“I barely remember you,” Natasha says, shaking her head. “I can’t help you.”

“Bullshit, Natalia,” he says like he _knows_ her. “We can help each other fill in some blanks.” He leans forward and there is a look in his eyes now that reminds her of the soldier who, in part, taught her how to take someone down, that hard kind of stare one gives when they put someone exactly where they want them. “I know you’re curious. You wouldn’t have gone searching if you didn’t want to know more.”

Natasha huffs, rolling her eyes as she leans back again. “I think it’s fair to say neither of us has reliable information on the other.” She taps her index finger against her temple. “Mind games for both of us.”

He shrugs, less confident than he was before. “I’ll take whatever I can get,” he tells her. He’s stopped looking at her so intensely, face relaxing into something she thinks could be softness.

_He speaks to her once. His voice is rough, quiet; Natasha wonders when the last time he spoke was, wonders if he ever speaks when he’s not giving orders on a mission. He looks her directly in the eye, looking at her with something she thinks could be softness, tenderness. It makes her skin crawl even as she puts her hand into his metal one. “You should leave.”_

_Her forehead wrinkles, her eyes darting around the room, looking for clues. Is this a test? Have they doubted her loyalty? Her head begins to ache and she finds herself backing away from the soldier. “I would like to train now.”_

Natasha clears her throat, her body shrinking in the wake of a sigh. “You told me to leave at the beginning of every training session after…” She cannot bring herself to say it outloud.

“After they changed you,” her soldier finishes, in the kindest way she thinks he could.

“And I didn’t trust you until the end.” She says it like there was a definitive ending to the Red Room, summarizes it like history books do. One day a wall is up, regimes exist, and one day the wall is down and communism is over. So simple, so compact.

Reality is not that simple. It could not be summed up or attributed to a single a moment; no one blinked and found themselves on the other side. The end of the Red Room was slow and drawn out, cracks appearing in the facade long before anything started to visibly crumble. The end of the Red Room was not just the cracks or the crumbles, it was the burning and the running and everything that’s followed her since.

The end is what she’s always known. It’s what she remembers with a startling clarity. She remembers going on more missions within Russia’s borders than outside them, taking out more threats within their own government than anyone else. She remembers coming back from those missions and finding more and more widows dead until there were only 35 of them left. She remembers being told to kill one of her superiors, a traitor to the cause.

Now that she is steady, silent, Natasha recalls every bit of the day she abandoned the facility she’d known all her life. “Do you remember the last time you saw me in Russia,” she asks, watching carefully as the soldier closes his eyes. They’re squeezed shut, his hands in fists. Natasha notices a scar curbed over his heart, flesh lighter than the rest, stitched back together with care that was not afforded to the shoulder that connects to metal. She thinks she was the one to give it to him, to mark him, but there’s no memory, no story, nothing but a feeling, a hunch.

Her soldier shakes his head, grunts in frustration when he opens his eyes. “You were talking to the older woman. We just finished sparring and she came in with a mission for you. Your first solo mission since.”

_“You’re a wonderful dancer,” she tells Daniil, her body pressed up against his, her fingers scratching at the back of his neck. There is no music but that doesn’t stop them from spending ten more minutes parading in front of the fountain, the city quiet and calm around them. He kisses her and through her repulsion, kisses him back._

_Daniil takes her back to his hotel and she lets him kiss her once more before she snaps his neck. She leaves him where he lies and doesn’t cast him a second glance when she leaves, pictures of the memos straight from Vadik Láska, one of the men selling Russian secrets, on the camera in her purse._

“I didn’t leave for another two years after that.”

He frowns. “That couldn’t have been the last time then… It feels like I have years of memories with you.”

“Years of the same memories, I’d assume. Sparring, training, missions… We were always battling when we were together.” He doesn’t look like he believes her but they both know their memories are so fractured that he can’t call her liar. He is right about one thing though and it is one of the only things she has always been sure of. “Would you like to know my last memory of you,” she offers. He looks at her eagerly and she raises a finger. “I will tell you, but only if you stop this madness with Steve.” He looks like he’s going to protest but she stops him before he can start. “I do not mean you must talk to him. You can continue to ignore him if you’d like, if you find you’re still not ready. All that I ask is if you still want to stay away, you go dark. You’re smart enough to move between cities, countries, unnoticed. You’re being sloppy and it’s driving him crazy.”

She expects more bargaining but he agrees and she steadies herself, pushing her barefeet against the carpet, feeling the ground beneath her. “We were training.” She pauses, shakes her head. “We were supposed to be training… I was eager because the girl I roomed disappeared the night before. It wasn’t a mission, she was just gone. You told me to leave and I punched you because I wasn’t going to waste time that day. But you just-” She takes a deep breath, standing up. She looks down at her soldier, finds him looking at her so intently, so innocently that she has to turn away. “You didn’t fight back. You just kept telling me to leave. I punched, I kicked, I took your own knife and you did _nothing_. I knew then that I had to go.” She rolls back her shoulders, finally turning back to look at him. Her eyes dart to his abandoned clothes and he stands to get dressed. “Instead of hitting me, instead of blocking my moves, you let me draw blood and begged me to leave before it was too late.”

“I didn’t fight,” he asks, voice thick with surprise.

She shakes her head. “No."

His jeans are unbuttoned around his hips, his shirt wrinkling in the tight grip of his metal hand. Though he is bigger than her, he seems so small.

A sob tears at his throat and Natasha reaches out, palming his cheek just as tears start to fall. “I took you to the ground and when I turned to leave, Madame B was there with my roommate. We were lead to another training room where we going to fight for the last time. Because of you, I made sure we never made it into that room. I made sure we left.” She wipes away a few of his tears. “For years, I thought I had dreamed you. I remembered being told to leave but could never put a face to the words. Thought it might’ve been a subconscious trick.” He cries steadily and she murmurs the words Clint has told her so many times. “You have always had good in you, James.”

It is easy, with her soldier in need in front of her, to compartmentalize.

It’s a welcome reprieve but she knows it will not last.

\--

Natasha should take a cab.

She opts instead for an umbrella to shield her from the rain, even choosing to leave her coat slung over the chair by the door. It’d been storming since she got into the city, a hot, humid rain that she hates. After all these years, with missions taking her all over the world, she can tolerate this type of weather. However, as much as this trip is for business, it could also be accused of pleasure too, and so she will chose comfort above all else.

God knows she has enough reasons to be uncomfortable these days. She doesn’t need her clothes clinging to her sticky body.

It only takes her a few minutes to her to the club and she bypasses the flooded entrance in favor of the door around back. Michael stands guard even though the door is always double locked. “Madame Natasha! I didn’t know you were coming to town.”

She returns his smile, thankful that he doesn’t know it’s a fake one. “Important business came up. It’ll be a quick trip.”

“Regardless,” he says, holding open the door for her once she’s unlocked it, “it’s always nice to see your face.”

The interior is not like she remembers. For one thing, the back offices are finally soundproofed, blocking out the stage music she could hear even when she was outside. It’s been painted too, the walls of the halls and offices no longer cream, but a vibrant mix of blues and purples. Natasha starts picking up faint notes of music the further she walks into the building and suddenly, there she is. Yelena enters from the door at the end of the hall, the music (Karina’s dance track if she remembers correctly) blaring, jarring Natasha from her previous silent state.

A girl trails behind her, Sabina, Natasha thinks but she’s not sure, having met the girl only once before, her makeup and hair all done up but her feet bare, a plush robe wrapped around her. Sabina runs straight into Yelena when she stops short. Despite her evident surprise to see Natasha, Yelena glares at the girl over her shoulder. “малютка, watch where you walk!” Yelena juts her chin towards the door and this time, her voice softer, “Go finish getting ready, you’re up next. We’ll talk tuition later.”

With Sabina gone, Natasha lets her shoulders sag slightly. She still doesn’t have it in her to let herself relax completely around Yelena, at least not when she can be viewed as weaker. “привет мой маленький,” Natasha breathes out. Yelena wrinkles her nose at the endearment Natasha has used all these years but sweeps Natasha into a hug none the less.

Natasha is bathed in the smell of smoke and lavender, sweat and sunscreen, alcohol and rain. Yelena’s arms are strong around her waist, at once comforting, grounding in a way Natasha needs, and threatening, the pressure a soft reminder of the days when it seemed imminent that they would kill each other.

_“Would you like me to pull it into a ponytail,” Natasha asks, fingers helping the comb work knots out of Yelena’s wet hair. They told her to let Yelena manage on her own, that it will make her stronger, but for some reason, Natasha cannot bear the sight of Yelena attempting to get ready on her own. Natasha knows that they still expect Yelena to be fast but she will fall behind on her own._

_Yelena nods and exhales with a soft hum. Natasha kisses the crown of Yelena’s head before combing her hair back and gathering it in her fist._

Yelena presses kisses along Natasha’s jaw as she pulls away. “It’s not like you to drop by unannounced, Natalia,” she says, leading Natasha into her office. Yelena’s laptop sits open on the desk, papers spread all around it, a empty coffee mug set precariously on the edge.

Without fanfare or words, Natasha opens her bag and sets the 10 files she chose to bring here directly on top of Yelena’s organized mess. “What are these?” Natasha moves out of the way when Yelena approaches, using the moment to inch the coffee cup further on the wooden surface with her hip. Yelena runs a painted pink nail along the name listed on the side of the first folder and Natasha watches surprise wash over her friend’s features, Yelena’s bright blue eyes blooming with anger and something akin to sadness.

“I thought you and the girls should have your own.”

Yelena picks up her file, disinterested for the time being in the rest. Sitting down on the well worn couch Natasha remembers Yelena having owned since her years in Turkey, Yelena opens her folder, laying it flat on her lap in the same way Natasha did her own. “I’m assuming you’ve read it.”

“Some,” Natasha admits, settling down on the opposite end of the couch. “Wanted to verify things in my own file.”

Still flipping through the pages carefully, Yelena doesn’t look up when she asks, “Like?”

Natasha bites the inside of her lip for a moment. “If you’d been given plastic surgery as well.”

Yelena frowns. “We all did, didn’t we? Couldn’t have our precious faces all marked up…”

“That’s true for you, yes. The only thing outside of a few expertly repaired gashes is when they had to fix your nose when I broke it.”

Yelena tosses her a light glare in her direction, no doubt annoyed at the mention of one of the many times Natasha won in competition between them. But then she looks at Natasha expectantly, silently asking for an elaboration. Plainly, Natasha explains what was done to her, what was done to two other girls who work at the club. Though Natasha keeps herself composed and relaxed, her voice even, Yelena looks at her curiously. “Why are you letting this upset you?”

Something breaks, just a little, a harsh laugh tearing through Natasha’s throat. “Are you thick,” Natasha questions, lapsing into Russian. “They made us killers. They played with our minds and our memories. They _owned_ us. And now I find out that the only thing that I thought was my own, the only thing I thought they hadn’t taken completely, was made by them too, and you’re asking why I’m upset?”

With a roll of her eyes, Yelena flips her file shut. “Our bodies were never our own, Natalia. We kissed, we fucked, we killed who they told us to kill. You know just as well as I do that our bodies belonged to them.”

Natasha crosses her legs, her entire body tensing to the point of aches, and sinks further into her seat. “We may not have had control over our bodies most of the time we were in Russia, but I at least thought my reflection was my own.”

“It is, darling, just not how you’d like it to be.” Yelena leans, trying to take Natasha’s hand, but she moves away, causing Yelena to huff at the rebuff. “We’ve always put on different masks, Natalia. Not just as spies, but as women. Different faces, different personalities, all dependent on the people around us. The girls on the stage are not the girls we see and they don’t see me the way you are allowed to see me.” Yelena gathers up her pale blonde hair and knots it on top of her head. Softer, Yelena finishes, “Women are never themselves until they are alone… If you look in the mirror and see yourself, then what is wrong?”

It’s not the same, Natasha wants to scream. This wasn’t a mask she chose to put on. This wasn’t something she could take off. This was her losing one more thing to the Red Room. This was looking in the mirror and once again doubting what she sees.

Natasha takes a deep breath. She should’ve known Yelena wouldn’t understand. At their cores, they are too different, the roads they’ve taken so greatly divergent from the other. They are close only due to their shared past; their youth that taught them to war with the other but, in their isolation, also brought a unique love between the two. Had she met Yelena after the Red Room, she would be nothing more than a point of contact for Natasha. Instead, she has a girl who is like a sister, a lover, a foe, all at once.

Sitting up straighter, Natasha smoothes down her top where it had ridden up. “Tell me how the girls are doing,” she says, toying the line between request and instruction.

Yelena walks over to the desk as she gives a quick run down. The apartment complex is full now, with no extra space for new women, something Natasha can tell is slightly worrying Yelena. Some of the girls have chosen to move in with one another, to help with kids but usually to help with the loneliness some still feel from finally being on their own and free, and that’s what has kept the apartment complex running smoothly. The club hasn’t gained any new dancers, least not from their personal bunch, with most of the girls either working in the corner store Yelena bought up last year or working in one of the touristy hotels in the city, positions that Yelena insures herself are good enough for the girls. “But we’ve still got our core group of girls here, which is good, since most of the money comes from here,” Yelena finishes, a smile forming around an unlit cigarette. “Five are going back to school too.”

Natasha grins, the good news curbing her own emotions. “I’m glad everything is going so well.”

Yelena lights her cigarette with a nod. “So,” she says, exhaling smoke towards what Natasha believes is a fake potted plant, “are you eating here or back at the house? Michael’s making your favorite tonight for the special.”

Shaking her head, Natasha stands. “I only dropped in to give you the files.”

Yelena frowns. “You won’t even spend the night, darling?”

Natasha rounds the desk, shutting the laptop so her bag doesn’t accidentally hit it when she leans down. She catches Yelena’s lips for a chaste kiss, tasting nicotine and mint and vodka. “ _Someone_ has to make the money that keeps this foundation of ours going, мой маленький."

\--

“What the fresh hell are you doing to my walls?”

Natasha turns, sledge hammer still poised over her shoulder to see Steve and Sam, the latter locking the door behind them. She swings, widening the hole in the wall before putting her tool down and moving her face mask so it hangs around her neck. “Free remodeling,” she quips. “Thought you’d appreciate it.”

Sam grins. “You putting in that pantry I want?”

She rolls her eyes as she picks up a pack of files wrapped tight in cellophane. Carefully, she sets them in the wall, ignoring Sam’s very specific specs for his ideal pantry. It’s like he doesn’t care at all that she has the counters in his kitchen covered in dirty, dusty files. Natasha guesses he really _doesn’t_ care. Steve on the other hand… “What are all these?”

He picks up a file from a stack she hasn’t wrapped yet. “Red Room files.” Steve’s hand pauses for just a moment before he opens a file that is not hers.

Bringing her the rest of the wrapped files, Sam, so innocently that a tightness forms in her chest, asks, “What’s the Red Room?”

“The people who made me.” It is the answer she has always given. She just never realized how utterly encompassing it really was.

Steve sets the file down, leaving Natasha to briefly wonder if he can even read Russian. “I thought everything was destr-”

“So did I,” she says. “Shouldn’t be surprised anymore though, should we?” Pushing her protective glasses into her mess of red hair, she asks how their work is going and listens to Sam describe their incredibly unsuccessful manhunt for a man she knows now that she met long before Iran. She begins wrapping up the final stack of files, observing how Steve does not react to Sam’s relay of their dead end in South America. Steve wears his emotions plainly and it strikes her as odd that he isn’t as torn up as he was back in the new Avengers facility. It takes a moment for her to realize it’s because he’s focused on her, like he’s expecting to see something more in her calm calculation of the task at hand.

She ignores his looks and takes the last few stacks over to the wall. “I hope this means we’ll be able to train our new recruits soon then,” she says, casting a glance at Sam. “You know we won’t take it easy on you just because we’re friends right?”

Sam laughs, pushing Natasha’s glasses back on to her face while Steve sits down at the dirty table. After all the wrapped files are safely in Sam’s wall, she gets to work on patching up the wall. “Is my whole house going to be full of these,” Sam asks, walking around his house, a knocking following his footsteps. “Have you redone my living room wall and I just can’t tell?”

Natasha shakes her head. “Just these. The rest of the files will be spread out in other walls around the world.”

Sam arches an eyebrow in his typical flirty manner when he walks back into the room. “Did your file get hidden here? Or is one of your other boys getting that honor?”

She smirks. “No one will be getting that honor.”

“Didn’t find yours,” Steve asks quietly.

She looks at him, at those sad eyes of his, eyes that beg for her to trust him the way he’s put his trust in her. He looks so earnest and suddenly she remembers the very first picture in his SHIELD file, the picture of a man in 1942 who is a shadow of the man in front of her. She swallows hard. “I didn’t say that.”

Steve stares at her and Sam looks between them both for a moment, assessing the room like the soldier he was, before excusing himself to go shower.

Natasha stays busy rebuilding the wall and takes a deep breath. Words fill up her throat and choke her. Everything inside of her is telling her to stay quiet, that this is her journey, her secret, and that she can survive this on her own too. She closes her eyes for a moment and all she can see is that picture from her file, of a girl who is strange and familiar, and the words claw their way out. “Was it difficult for you to look at yourself after the super serum?”

She hears Steve shift behind her before he softly asks, “What do you mean?” Natasha shakes her head, briskly telling him nevermind. She hears movement again and she’s not sure she’s surprised when he appears in her peripheral vision. “It’s hard still.” Now that does surprise her. She looks up at him, seeing that small smile of his that is always paired with a heavy sadness in his eyes. She lets her hands fall still as he shrugs just a little. “I’ve, uh, I’ve had a really hard time with that. Started talking to someone about it too.” He takes a breath. “Sam thought it could help and it has.” He pauses again and makes sure to hold her eyes this time. “It’s helping a whole lot.”

His smile grows just a little then he turns, walking into the living room, leaving her alone in Sam’s kitchen, surrounded by plaster and dust and dirt.

She swallows the lump in her throat and continues patching the wall.

\--

The AC in the old beater Clint gave her once upon a time gives up the ghost about 700 miles into her trip back home. Pulling off on the side of the road, Natasha moves the files she had left to the trunk, not wanting to take any chances of them flying away once she rolled down the windows. She uses the pit stop to stretch, rising into her toes while stretching towards the sky. Something in her back pops, gives way to a relaxation that feels foreign in the wake of her discovery.

Wind picks up when a semi passes her, dust kicking up and coating her clothes just a bit, and she wraps her sweatshirt around her tighter, shoving her hands into her pockets. There’s an old bandana in there, one she thinks she stole from Clint, and Natasha folds it a few times as she walks back to the driver’s seat. Pushing her hair back, she wraps the bandana under her hair before knotting the ends on top of her head. It should suffice to keep her hair out of her eyes while she’s speeding down the highway with the windows down. She glances in the rear view mirror to make sure everything is caught in her self made trap.

It's the first time since before that she's looked at herself.

She looks away quickly, starts the car, and pulls back onto the road.

In the few hours she has left on her trip, she can not stop herself from dwelling on it. Not that her mind had been clear of the revelation, but she had enough other things to distract herself. She thought of James, who kept his end of the bargain and disappeared again. She thought of Steve, who, despite his sadness, started to let himself relax. She thought Yelena and where Natasha would find the money so that they could buy another complex for their growing brood. She thought of the Bartons and all the things she had to do when she got back to the farm (fix the AC with Clint, treat Laura to a day out, go to the school carnival with the kids, be back in time for Nathaniel’s six month check up). But seeing herself takes her back to that swampy room in El Cantor with her own face, though foreign and new, staring back at her.

There is no music to drown out the thoughts, nothing to distract her or force her to compartmentalize.

Natasha takes a breath. Compartmentalization is necessary for her work. She learned that very early on. Right now, she is not working. There's no reason to avoid her own thoughts, not here, alone in this car.

She pushes herself up in the seat, her foot falling heavier on the gas pedal for a moment, and sits so that she can see herself in the rear view mirror. She's pretty. She's been told before too that she is beautiful, that she is gorgeous, that she has a face that could make cities fall and marriages crumble. What she does not understand is why this face was necessary.

Her missions usually rested on her abilities. It's not as if Natasha was only used as a way in, a pretty girl used to distract stupid men so the Red Room could get what they want. She trained, and trained, and trained until she was strong enough to carry men out of battlefields. Her muscles moved on memory when it came to taking out an assailant, with or without weapons. She studied technology in order to hack into files, learned languages and accents so that she could fit in anywhere. They taught her how and when to stand out and how to make herself blend in. They gave her every tool necessary to turn her into a fantastic spy...

She thinks of that picture of herself, where she is average and plain. That girl would not have needed the practice of making herself invisible. In comparison to Yelena at that age, it’s obvious that Yelena would be the more beautiful of the two. The one who would be able to win over foolish men. It would have been perfect, really. Have Yelena distract while Natasha, with no special trimmings other than her skills, go in and take care of everything. She would have been able to move seamlessly, even without a new face.

No one would have noticed that girl.

Except, it turns out, the Red Room.

\--

Squirming in Natasha’s lap, Lila animatedly recounts her day, paying special attention to the book she’s reading for SSR. “I could read it to you, Auntie Nat. If you wanted,” Lila says, turning to give Natasha a wide smile. “But you can't just leave before we finish it. I don't want you wondering how it ended when you need to be paying attention for work.”

Natasha returns the smile before gently turning Lila’s face forward again. “Later, my love. You've got to sit still if you want French braids.”

Clint stops in the doorway of her room, gives the door jam a light knock. Her file is in his free hand and she takes a deep breath. It’d taken him faster to read it than she thought it would. “Daddy, I get to read to Auntie Nat at bedtime,” Lila exclaims, not even flinching when her jostling causes Natasha to pull a little too tight on her hair.

“What? Now that she’s back you can't read to me anymore,” Clint teases and Lila laughs.

“I have to catch her up first! And I don't think you'll let me read _that_ much before bed.”

Natasha finishes securing the second braid when Clint shakes his head, then presses her hands along Lila’s head to make sure the braids are tight but comfortable. “Now that you're done, go help Mom with your laundry. I have to talk to Auntie Nat.”

They both wait until they're sure Lila is down the hall until they move, Clint entering the room and shutting the door while Natasha flops back onto the mattress. “It’s idiotic,” she states, pressing the heel of her hands to her eyes until fireworks bloom.

“What is?”

Natasha sighs, the bed dipping next to her. “How much I'm letting this affect me.” She opens her eyes to see Clint look down at her, her file no where to be found. “I've done this already, haven't I? I had made some sort of peace with it.”

He takes her hand and gives a little tug until she's sitting up next to him. He keeps her hand tucked into his. “This is allowed to hurt. You're allowed to hurt,” he says, rough hand squeezing hers gently. “This is a new wound almost… Or like, the scab of the old one.” Her face screw up in disgust and he shakes his head. “Sorry. Lila and Cooper were comparing scabs today on the drive home from school. I'm pretty sure the comparison still works though.” He brings her closer, throwing his arm around her shoulders. “Look, the stuff with my pops is always in the back of my mind. It still hurts me, still makes me worry if I'm being a good enough dad to my own kids. And I know, even if you don't say it or show it, that your past still gets to you too. It's just something we’re gonna carry around with us forever. And you can bet your ass that if I found out now my dad had done some other awful thing I don't remember to me, or my mom, or even Barney, that I'd be a mess too.”

She can feel tears start to gather in her eyes and she blinks rapidly to keep them at bay. She's cried in front of Clint before, happy tears and sad tears, and she knows that this is an offering. Here, in her room in a place he's made sure is a home to her, she can let it out. She can be upset, she can cry, she can yell, she can do whatever she feels she needs to do because it's _okay_. It doesn't matter how she feels because it is genuine and this is a safe place. This is not the Red Room, this is not SHIELD.

But she is tired of shedding tears for people who did not care about her.

Natasha shakes her head, letting out a staggered breath. “What if I never feel like myself again,” she asks, not allowing her voice to waver or shrink away. “What if I can never look at myself again?”

“Oh, babe,” Clint sighs, pulling her closer until she’s up in him. “You will. You've done it before… You told me once that you'd never be able to unsee the red but you have.” It takes a moment for her to realize Clint is shaking. “No matter what though, nothing changes here. Not how much we all love you. This is your home for as long as you want it.”

She silently wonders if she would have ended up here had it not been for her operation. If, when Clint had been tasked with killing her, still chosen to bring her in if she was simple. Her skill set was nothing short of brilliant but she'd never known what caused him to pause and her mind is twisting memories into ugly nightmares. She knows, logically, that he pardoned her because she reminded him of himself, a lost kid who was getting by doing whatever jobs were available. But she's taunted by a voice saying that it was because she was pretty. That's how she had survived most missions wasn't it? Eager men underestimating her allowed her to kill them.

She pulls back, angry now at herself, not only for doubting Clint, but also for lingering on the idea of beauty. What people deem beautiful is entirely made up, a fictitious and misogynistic standard designed to demean and pit women against each other. Natasha’s fallen into the trap just now, doubting her own worth as the exact same person with a plain face.

“I hate this,” she says, bringing a hand up to rub at her temple.

Clint rubs her shoulder. “I know. But we’re here for you.”

\--

_Her wrists and ankles are bound to the table but she can't seem to move. These cuffs shouldn't be able to keep her down. She's stronger than this, better than this. Natasha closes her heavy eyes and tries to remember how she got here. There was a mission. Had she been hurt? Everything is foggy but she remembers the soldier coming to help dispose of the bodies but she can't be sure if her mind is jumbling up different missions. She forces her eyes open again. On her right, a doctor stands at her stomach, mask already pulled down over his face. A nurse stands beside him, lining up different tools. There's more nurses, she can see them from the corner of her eye, their backs to her. What more is there to prep?_

_A face suddenly appears over hers, upside down, hands gripping the sides of her heads. “You will sleep soon, Natalia. And when you wake, you’ll be the best.”_

_A mask is placed over her nose and mouth just as a needle enters her veins. She sleeps but she sees it clearly now too._

_She sees the sheet being pulled back to display her naked torso. A scalpel is raised from its tray, its sparkling tip slicing into the skin low on her abdomen. Another cuts around her breasts, another still at her eyebrow, nose, chin. Blood flows in the wake of each until her body is covered in red, staining her fle-_

_A wall collapsed on her. That's what Natalia is told. She believes them because that's exactly what it feels like happened to her body. It hurts to open her eyes for a while but eventually, she can take stock of her other injuries. She was put in a medically induced coma for a short time, they tell her, and so she doesn't have to worry about broken bones because most have already healed. When she looks down at her body, she thinks it looks different. Her breasts seem smaller but noticing this fact creates a headache between her eyes._

_She must be imagining thi-_

_Madame B stands in front of her, wrapping Natalia’s used gauze around her hand. “Now that you're healed, you will take your place as our star.” Natasha tries not to let herself believe that Madame B actually looks proud._

_Yelena stands in the doorway, arms crossed tight beneath her chest, lips set in a thin li-_

_“This is not a mission,” Natasha is told. A bracelet is secured around her wrist. She is told that the gems match her eyes. She takes their word for it; it feels like forever since she's seen her face._

_Her hair is curled and pinned atop her head so that it doesn't tangle in the clasp at the back of her neck that holds her black dress up. “What is this then,” Natasha asks._

_She doesn't get an answer until she's being led into a ballroom that she remembers from missions before. Russia’s best come here for extravagant parties. Liquor flows all night, food, so rich and delicious Natasha thinks she’ll never get used to it, is paraded around on the arms of waiters, and music is played by the best in the country, creating the perfect backdrop for the night._

_“They want to meet you. You're the best, Natalia. They will finally put a face to all that you've accomplished.”_

_The soldier appears on her arm. They want to see him too. He kisses her cheek, whispers into her ear that she's beautiful. She smiles but her eyes are sharp. When their handlers walk in front of them, she digs her finely polished nails into the skin on his arm. “Never kiss me without my permission again.”_

_He looks surprised but apologizes. He starts to tell her something, something that seems important, but she drops his arm and joi-_

Natasha pushes herself out of bed, sheet tangling in her legs, nearly tripping her as she scrambles to the bathroom. She's being loud and she tries to tell herself to calm down, to take a breath. She doesn't want to scare the kids.

All she can see is her body covered in her own blood, all she can hear are the praises she got once she was made beautiful. She falls to her knees in front of the toilet and vomits, her back aching from the force. She jumps when a hand touches her back but relaxes as thin fingers gather up her hair, keeping it out of her face. “It's okay, sweetheart,” Laura whispers. Laura’s hand rubs circles up and down Natasha’s back until Natasha’s finished. She doesn't leave, just wraps Natasha in her arms.

\--

Natasha wakes to warmth.

Her room is bathed in late morning light, a quilt that must’ve been put over her once she was back asleep tucked in all around her, the familiar scent of hay and mud and vanilla filling her nose as she buries her face into the stitched together fabric. Laura’s next to her, steady hand stroking back Natasha’s hair, Nathaniel softly suckling at Laura’s breast.

“Good morning,” Laura murmurs. She smiles, wide and welcoming, the only way she's ever smiled at Natasha, and gives Natasha the space to sit up. “I'm glad you were able to fall back asleep.”

Laura doesn't ask how she's feeling nor does she ask for any details on what prompted the midnight incident. Natasha slips her hand into Laura's free one, giving it a squeeze. “Me too.”

“You should eat soon. Your stomach has been growling for almost an hour now.” If Natasha had to guess, it's probably close to noon already. She can't remember the last time she slept this late. “Clint made sure to put some food aside for us.”

Natasha turns, confused. “You haven’t eaten?”

Laura shakes her head. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone, sweetheart.”

Once again, Natasha is struck by how lucky she is. She wonders what she must have done to deserve Laura, Clint, the kids, in her life. Her gratitude must play on her face because it's Laura's turn to give Natasha a little squeeze. Natasha notices then just how similar their hands are. Both are strong, steady, capable. Laura cooks with these hands, works her land with these hands, teaches with these hands. Though there is a shadow of roughness, tiny calluses on her palms evidence of the hard work she does, these hands are nuanced enough to be soft and gentle. These are loving hands made for the world but also for partners and children and friends.

Natasha runs her thumb along Laura's knuckles then over a jagged thumbnail. “I'm treating you to a manicure,” Natasha says, “among other things.”

“If you’d like.” Nathaniel squirms against Laura’s chest, pulling away from her with a dazed, happy smile, a bit of milk running down the side of his mouth. “Someone’s milk drunk,” Laura coos fondly. “Would you like to burp him?”

He's big enough now that he can sit on Natasha’s lap with just a hand across his chest to keep him upright. She pats his back a little too soft at first, like this is her first time way back when Cooper was a baby, terrified she'll hit too hard and hurt this beautiful being in her care. Under her breath, Laura tells her to be more firm, a kind reminder that Natasha has done this so many times before.

It feels like Laura might say something more but then there’s a knock on the door. “We’re up,” Laura says softly. The knob turns and then Cooper’s face appears.

“Oh, good.” He opens the door all the way before disappearing down the hall. When he returns, he's carrying a tray full of breakfast leftovers. It’s all piled on one plate, all the tray would allow, but there's two of everything else: two forks, two napkins, two cups of tea, and two bunches of wildflowers. He sets it down carefully on Laura's free lap. “Good morning, Mom.” He leans over to kiss her cheek before rounding the bed to Natasha’s side. “Good morning, Auntie Nat.” She gets a kiss too. It makes the warmth bloom in her chest.

“Good morning,” they return in unison and Natasha pats the bed next to her. “Thank you for bringing us breakfast,” Natasha says. “Have you had a nice day so far?”

Cooper nods, telling both women about clearing out part of the barn with Clint and Lila. “But now that we’re done and everyone is awake, we can play in the house!”

Amused, Natasha stops attempting to burp the baby so she can ruffle Cooper’s hair, using the action to brush a few stray pieces of straw off his head and to the floor. She gets no complains from him this time and she thinks a genuine grin might be growing on her face. “And what will you be playing?”

Laura swallows her bite of toast. “Certainly not anything with a ball, right, Coop,” she chimes in as she spears some eggs with her fork, offering the bite to Natasha.

“Never,” Cooper says so seriously that Natasha smiles around the fork. “But I was hoping that you’d show me how to dance some more, Auntie Nat. Or, when Lila wakes up, we could play hide and seek again.”

“Lila’s sleeping,” Laura asks. “I thought you said everyone was up now.”

Cooper nods. “She is awake, but both she and Dad have the nap time eyes.”

Laura gives her another bite of food and Natasha chews thoughtfully. “How about we dance until they’re not feeling so lazy,” Natasha suggests. Before Cooper can respond, Nathaniel burps exceptionally loud. Laura and Cooper giggle on either side of her, Nathaniel looking up at Natasha with bright eyes and a smile. “Perhaps Nathaniel would like to dance too, hm?” Natasha runs her finger along his chubby cheek and he lets out a babble of what she can only think is agreement.

“I’ll go clean up my floor,” Cooper says, kissing Natasha’s cheek again. “Thank you!”

Cooper closes the door half way as he leaves, giving the two women a bit of privacy. Laura moves their half eaten tray of food between them, hands grabbing for the baby. “Give him here for a sec.” Laura stands once the baby is back in her hands, laying Nathaniel down in the bedside bassinet. Getting back into bed, she moves the tray once more so that she can get close to Natasha. Nothing seems to be wrong but Laura’s actions are odd, making Natasha a little more guarded. Laura takes both of Natasha’s hands in hers. “I’m so very glad that you’re here,” Laura says fervently. “I know there are parts of your life that you wish you could change. There are parts of your life that I wish you hadn’t gone through. But your life, against everything, lead you to my life, and I am so thankful for that.”

Clint doesn’t do this with her. He is not so blatant in his affection with her because he knows it’s hard for her most times to accept it. He is strong, careful, gives her room but will never push her more than he thinks is fair. It’s different with the kids; they’re so innocent that she knows they don’t know any better. But Laura is passionate in a way that Natasha rarely sees.

“You are so good to my children, to Clint, to me… Having you here too makes this place feel complete,” Laura adds, squeezing Natasha’s hands tight. It doesn’t feel like she’s trapping Natasha but instead grounding her. It reminds Natasha of what is important. It reminds Natasha that she made the choice to come here, the choice to stay.

Even with everything taken away, she has come back and taken things for herself. She is the master of her fate, captain of her soul. She won’t let the Red Room fool her into thinking that she’s not again.

She pulls Laura in for a hug and when Laura wraps her arms around Natasha, she says, melting into the other just a bit, feeling more protected than she has in a long time.

\--

“Could you tell me about what you were like before,” Natasha asks, straightforward when Steve picks up the phone. She probably should've asked if he was busy. The sun’s already set on the farm which means it's later still wherever Steve is, be it Sam’s place in DC or their own quarters at base. Natasha’s not sure Steve would’ve told her to call back even if he were busy.

“Before…?” She closes her eyes, running a hand through her hair and pulling back a wilted flower that must’ve been part of the crown Lila made her earlier. The words are no longer eager to escape her, her curiosity only fueling her enough to make the call to Steve but not to follow through. It would be easy to hang up, to run from dealing with this nagging thought in her head like she used to. She knows it would be fruitless though. She can not run from Steve, she doesn’t _want_ to run from Steve. He is her teammate, her friend. He knows what it’s like to not feel at home in his body.

She takes a deep breath to steady herself. “Before the serum,” she answers quietly. “What were you like before the serum?”

There’s rustling on the other end and then silence, like Steve is choosing to be still in this moment with her. She wonders if he’ll make her be even more specific, ask her what exactly she wants to know about him before. Natasha doesn’t know if she could answer that if he were to ask.

But then Steve starts, voice even and calm. “I was a helluva lot shorter… About your size actually but shrimpy compared to you. No muscles, no fat. Couldn’t even run without hacking up a lung… Physically, I’m a whole different person. But outside of that, I don’t think I’ve changed,” he admits. “I still love to set myself up somewhere and draw for hours. I still love Billie Holiday. My favorite food is still chicken, ‘course that’s probably thanks to the fact that I can actually season it now.” Natasha can hear the smile in his voice.

She lays back on the bed. She still loves pickles on any given day, tea on cold nights and cold days. She still loves playing with Cooper and Lila and Nathaniel. She still loves being on this farm, working on this farm. She still prefers to read modern novels as opposed to classics. She has a weak spot for great hair care products, no matter the price, but loathes dressing up.

“And I still get into fights with things much bigger than me because I don’t like bullies,” Steve finishes, dropping them into silence for a moment. His words weigh heavy on her but they don’t feel like they will crush her. Instead, it’s almost reassuring, this steady, firm presence of someone who is in her shoes and seeing the good. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Natasha nods only to realize how pointless the silent gesture is. “Yes,” she verbalizes, exhaling with her whole body.

“I know you’ve got Clint,” Steve says, “but I’m here too. If you need to talk.”

“Yeah, I know.” Natasha licks her lips and listens as Sam calls Steve for a late dinner. “Thank you.”

When she closes her eyes, she can see that small smile Steve gets when he says, “Anytime,” just before saying goodbye.

\--

Lila comes stomping into the barn, Laura’s work boots on her feet. They land well above the little girl’s knees but the determination to make these shoes work is evident on her face. “I’m ready,” Lila announces, picking up her shovel from where it leans against the wall.

“You can’t even walk in those,” Cooper says as he enters. “You have to go find yours.”

Natasha watches the siblings bicker, more amused than annoyed. She turns, leaning against the work bench that holds the rest of the files. “херувимы, what are you ready for?”

“To help you dig,” Cooper answers, Lila nodding beside him.

“Daddy said you were going to dig in the woods.”

Natasha nods. “And did he say that to you two or to your mama?”

Guilty, both kids look to their feet. Lila wrings her hands together while Cooper shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “We didn’t think it was anything secret, Auntie Nat,” Cooper says, looking back up at her with a tiny frown.

“Promise,” Lila adds.

Natasha pushes herself off the workbench, smiling softly at the kids. “It’s okay.” She pulls them in for a hug, a Barton baby on either side of her, and feels any lingering tension escape her body. Lila’s arms wrap around her waist, her head burrowing against Natasha’s chest, while Cooper’s arms loop around her neck, his own head resting against hers. She squeezes them tighter, pressing a kiss onto their cheeks. “Would you be terribly upset if I asked you two to stay back?”

Lila pouts slightly but once Cooper side eyes her, she stands tall. “Can we play when you get back,” Cooper asks.

“Of course.” They smile widely and turn to head back to the house, only for Lila to stop short when she sees Wanda.

“Why does Wanda get to go but we don’t,” Lila exclaims, fixing Wanda with one of the most stern looks Natasha has ever seen from a 6 year old. “She’s not very good at digging!”

“Lila,” Natasha chastises, her face twisted in a fix of surprise at the outburst and disappointment in the girl’s actions.

“I’m sorry,” Lila says, though Natasha isn’t sure who it’s directed at. “You’re just much better at flower crowns than digging.”

Wanda simply chuckles. “You’re very right. You dig much faster than I do.”

“I didn’t invite Wanda because of her digging skills. I asked her to come along because I haven’t been able to talk to her much since I got back. Do you have a problem with that, Miss Lila?”

“Nope,” Cooper answers for her, setting his hands on Lila’s shoulders and steering her back toward the house. “And thank you for not telling Mom and Dad about this, right, Lila?”

Natasha doesn’t head the response but shakes her head with a small smile. “Thank you for coming with me,” Natasha says, heading back to the work bench.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Wanda returns. “I’ve really enjoyed being here.”

Natasha pulls tape from the roll, securing it along the lid of the box. “Good to know Lila hasn’t been a pill to you while I was gone.”

“Oh no, she’s been wonderful. Everyone has really… It’s been so nice,” Wanda says, quiet but genuine.

“Laura really likes you,” Natasha adds, looking back at Wanda. She looks a little out of place here, surrounded by hay and mud and so many farm tools. She wonders if this is how she looked the first time she came here.

Wanda smiles, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I’m glad. I worried she wouldn’t… that no one would.”

Natasha presses the tape down on the box so that the lid will stay on, shakes her head. “That’s the nice thing about this family. They’re always willing to give you a second chance.” Wanda comes up beside her, looking at the box curiously. “Will you hold that bag open for me,” Natasha asks, nodding towards the thick trash bag that’s fallen to the dirt floor.

Once ready, Natasha lowers the box into the bag then takes the bag from Wanda with a thank you. Wanda stares at the box and glances back at Natasha. “What’s in there?”

It’s too soon. Wanda is too new to all of this and it’s too soon for Natasha to be honest here. She feels comfortable around Wanda, sees so much of herself in this girl she’s known for such a short time, but this part of her life, Natasha’s always held close to her chest.

Sealing the bag, Natasha leaves Wanda’s question unanswered, choosing instead to ask her own. “Would you like to go with me to see my sister?” Wanda studies Natasha closely, so much so that it makes Natasha itch beneath her skin. She remains neutral under the inspection until it’s clear that Wanda is trying to figure out the missing piece to this conversation. “You don’t have to. You could stay here or go back to headquarters or go wherever. I just wanted to give you the choice.” Natasha offers a small smile. “Choices give you power.”

Wanda nods, at first unsure before the action grows more confident. “You know, I volunteered for the experiments,” Wanda says, going over to where all the tools lean against the barn wall. “But it never felt like much of a choice… What was my alternative? To wait to die?” Wanda grips the handle of a shovel and kicks the blade with the toe of her shoe lightly. She looks back at Natasha, serious but soft. “But look where it has taken me. I have more choices now than I ever thought I would.”

Something tightens in Natasha chest. “Yeah,” she says, picking up the box. “Sometimes the absence of choice can lead to something good in the end.” Rolling her shoulders back, Natasha nods her head to the open barn door. “Come on. Let’s go get this taken care of.” Wanda throws the shovel over her shoulder and falls in line with Natasha. “I should warn you, you probably won’t like my sister.”

“No,” Wanda asks innocently.

Natasha shakes her head. “She can be a real bitch. It’s why I no longer live on the same continent as her.” Wanda laughs and Natasha grins as they set out to the woods.

\--

“I thought your sister would still be in Russia,” Wanda gasps, pulling her long hair up into a bun. The sun is setting but Natasha can still see the sheen of sweat on the back of the other girl’s neck. Since Wanda had no suitable clothes for a tropical climate, they'd spent the morning before their flight shopping, though Natasha knows the light dress Wanda wears now is not enough to keep her comfortable in the damp heat.

Natasha searches her purse and then smiles, offering Wanda the cotton handkerchief. “This won't be a long visit. Just a day or so to take care of a few things.”

Wanda wipes the back of her neck with the handkerchief then turns to Natasha, confused. “Then why did you buy me so many clothes?”

Natasha shrugs as she loops her arm through Wanda’s, both stopping on the corner as they wait for traffic to pass. “You need more clothes of your own,” Natasha says simply, starting across the street. “Not just SHIELD issued things or clothes from Laura.”

“Thank you,” Wanda says, glancing down at the cotton square in her hand. “It feels gross to hand this back to you now.”

Waving it off, Natasha continues down the crowded touristy street. “I have to warn you, Yelena runs a club. I understand if you don't feel comfortable going in, but I at least wanted to bring you down to where other fun things are.”

Wanda takes in the street around her, looking a little unsure of everything. Natasha should've known this would be overwhelming for the young girl. It had been overwhelming for Natasha once upon a time too, to have the ability to do something for herself in a place that was new. “What kind of club is it?”

“A gentlemen’s club,” Natasha says evenly.

To Natasha’s surprise, Wanda hardly reacts beyond blinking twice. “Isn't that more of a man’s arena?”

Natasha nods. “That's what makes this one different. At least, I'd like to think it's different than most people’s preconceived notions.” The neon casts a glow on their faces as they approach the club, a line already starting to form in the front. It's a Saturday, the busiest day for the club, and Natasha knows it will be hard to get Yelena to sit for a few minutes to go over the property Natasha found. Still, the shorter the time inside might be better for Wanda, who has still yet to give any sort of reaction. “You see,” Natasha starts, stopping so that Wanda can take in the building Yelena built from the ground up, “we set this up for other girls like us. Ones who were warriors for abusive regimes. It's grown a bit since then… We take in any woman who needs it. But every single one is given the option to work here or in the hotel we’re staying at. The ones who choose to dance or waitress here do so as a kind of therapy.” Wanda looks like she may laugh and Natasha squeezes her forearm gently. “In Russia, I had no control over my body. Here, these girls are in complete control. They give the patrons who come only what the girls are willing to share.”

“But don't the shows end the same way? Does it not end with naked girls and men throwing money at them?”

“No, not always,” Natasha answers, leading them towards the entrance. “The girls take off as much or as little as they’d like. Some don't show anything ‘obscene’ at all, like a burlesque show. Our goal is to always make sure the girls are comfortable. They are all paid the same.” Wanda looks a little surprised but thoughtful and it helps Natasha relax as they are allowed into the club. The music is so loud Natasha can feel it in her bones, a steady beat that is near overwhelming. Getting close to Wanda’s ear, Natasha half yells, “If you get uncomfortable, I can take you to an office in the back,” before turning to get a look at the stage.

It was one of the newer girls that Natasha has yet to get to know. She remembers the email Yelena had sent about this girl a few months ago, unable to fully concentrate on it in light of the Ultron matter. Most of the girls move with a certain fluidity on the stage, their bodies in tune with the music in such a hypnotic way, but there this girl moves with a bit of grace that Natasha has only seen in one other dancer before.

Smiling, Natasha looks to the bar to find Yelena concentrating on her with a small smirk. “That’s my sister,” Natasha tells Wanda, pointing to where the blonde rounds the crowded bar.

Wanda glances at Yelena with a nod before dragging her eyes back to the stage. Before Yelena approaches them, Wanda turns into Natasha. “She is a beautiful dancer… You're right,” Wanda sighs. “This is different… Better.”

“I'm glad you think so,” Natasha replies, happy that it was not a mistake to invite Wanda here.

“Natalia,” Yelena exclaims, glancing at the stage where the girl is finishing up her routine. “Doesn't she remind you of someone?”

Natasha rolls her eyes but her smile continues to stretch her cheeks. “Coy doesn't look good on you.”

Yelena throws her head back in a laugh, looping her arm through Wanda’s, sandwiching her between the two widows. “I was trying to save you some face, Natalia. I wasn't sure if you wanted your friend to know how wonderful a dancer you are.”

“Me? I was thinking she danced like you,” Natasha returns. She looks at Wanda out of the side of her eye, hoping the girl is not getting overwhelmed. Though her eyes are widening just a bit, Wanda feels at ease next to her, her pulse steady against Natasha’s fingers.

“Natalia was the better dancer,” Yelena grits out, her face souring. “Pains me to say it, but there it is.” She clears her throat and gives Wanda a once over. “And who are you малютка?”

Wanda eyes Yelena, her face unsure of the pet name Yelena uses for all their girls. “Wanda Maximoff.”

An easy smile returns to Yelena’s face. “I'm Yelena. Welcome.” Yelena glances over Natasha’s shoulder and then clicks her tongue. “We’ll have to put him on the banned list.”

A man tries to slip his hand under Karina’s panties during her lap dance. Instantly, Natasha’s fists clench, her shoulders tight as she straightens up. “Excuse me.”

Yelena sighs. “You know she can take care of herself.” And Karina can. She had been a widow with them, trained like them to a point. She'd been years younger but Natasha knew Karina could kill a man in eight different ways and break any bone in the human body. But part of what made this place special for Natasha, was that no woman had to resort to violence anymore. They could defend themselves and Natasha was proud of each and every one of them for having those skills, but those skills shouldn't have to be implemented in their place of work.

“That is enough,” Natasha yells, wrapping her hand around the back of the man’s neck. Karina is already standing, the disgust with the man in front of them plain on her face. Natasha lets her nails dig into flesh, her muscles working into his pulse points. “Apologize to her.”

“Sorry,” the man grits out. Karina scoffs, already heading back stage so she can recollect herself.

Natasha slips out of her heel before letting go of the man’s neck. When he turns to look at her, she works the heel of her shoe into his thigh hard enough for tears to spring from his eyes. “She is not yours. None of us are yours. Understood?” He nods frantically and so with a cheshire smile, she releases him, happy when he stumbles towards the exit.

Yelena wraps her arms around Natasha’s waist from behind, letting her chin perch on Natasha’s shoulder. “Karina could've done that.”

Natasha runs a hand over Yelena’s laced fingers. “I know. But-”

“But,” Yelena cuts in, “you've always had a big heart. Can't stand to see any of us struggle. Never could.”

“Yeah,” Natasha exhales, letting Yelena take some of her weight. It's almost laughable to Natasha, to be told she has heart. She's done so many vile, cruel things that there were times that Natasha was certain she must be a demon, a creature that could never know any light. But she closes her eyes and remembers the way she took care of Yelena all those years ago, brushing blonde hair in the same way Yelena’s fingers run through Natasha’s curls now. Her mind starts to drift, as it always does, to the Barton farm, and she holds her breath. These are thoughts for a different time. Not here, not with Yelena and Wanda so close.

“We’ve got business to discuss,” Natasha says, patting the hand still at her waist. Yelena nods and Wanda stands awkwardly where they left her. “That won't happen again,” Natasha says, apologetic. “I won't leave you like that unless you want me too.”

“It's fine,” Wanda says, giving Natasha a small smile.

Natasha gives Wanda’s shoulders a gentle squeeze before leading them towards the back of the club.

\--

It is early when Natasha begins to disrobe.

She had forced herself to sleep when they got back from the club. Like so many nights before, it was restless, her body not exhausted enough to plunge her into a blissful darkness. The images she sees in her sleep appear so often now that Natasha isn't sure she can call them nightmares anymore. The blood, the red, herself as she had been born, still jarring, still frightening, but no longer enough to wake her completely.

Instead, she woke as if she hadn't slept.

She stands in the new morning light and pulls off the T shirt she had stolen from Clint before leaving the farm. Cracking her neck until she feels somewhat comfortable again, Natasha walks to the closet door. She's made a point to leave the door open so that she won't chance seeing herself in the mirror on the back. She hadn't looked at her face since she drove back to Iowa and had bathed in a rigid way, not allowing herself too much time to linger over her body.

Natasha probably could avoid looking at herself for a lot longer but she is tired of being afraid, no, uneasy, with her own body.

She pushes down her sleep shorts and then her underwear. She closes the door of the closet and takes a step back, letting her body fill the mirror.

First, she imagines what her body would have been like. She imagines a wider nose, a heavier brow, thinner lips. She imagines heavier breasts that hang lower on her body that curves to match the curve of her hips. She fingers the tiny silvery line of skin that's nearly hidden by coarse red curls and thinks, for just a second, of what it would be like to bleed between her legs, what it would be like to be swollen with a child.

Tears starts to sting her eyes and Natasha closes them tight. She thinks that that girl could've been happy, just the way she was.

“I am happy,” Natasha murmurs, opening her eyes to look at her body for what it is. A pretty face but a face that shows faint laugh lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. They match Clint and Laura’s, she thinks. She touches the scar on her shoulder, remembers not James but Steve and Sam and Maria, the three who worried over her wound when they should've been worried about something so much more important. She cups her breasts, looking hard to find scars from her surgery there but finding none. Instead, Natasha only feels their lightness, thinks of how easy it is for her to train, to move, with them only big enough to fill her hands. Her stomach is strong with muscles, the only mark there a scarred burn from when she spent the morning baking tea cakes with Cooper two years ago. The wound at her hip is jagged and she thinks about Clint, who is steady and calm most of the time, shaking as he tried to stitch her up, tried to keep her alive until help could arrive. She thinks of the Barton babies when she comes back to her hysterectomy scar, and knows that they're enough for her.

This is her body. This body has memories carved into it, memories that don't belong to the Red Room.

Natasha stares at her body for a moment longer and her vision swirls just a little. She sees a mixture of who she could have been and who she is. She closes her eyes again and takes a deep breath.

It will take time. Even Steve admitted he isn't home in his body and he's had longer to cope with the changes of his then she has. But Natasha thinks it will get better. She's come out of the darkness before and she knows that she can do it again.

She has all of these people now too, people who care about her enough to remind her that nothing has changed about her, that she is still a loving, caring woman who does good in a world that tried to take all that away. She could stay here with Yelena and save more women. She could go back to the farm and live out the rest of the year as a friend and an aunt. She could go back to New York and train the new Avengers with Steve. She could take Wanda anywhere in the world, just to show the girl something new. Natasha knows that no matter what she does, she would be happy.

Natasha opens her eyes, tears rolling down her pink cheeks, looks at her body. She wishes it hadn't been changed but she has made a home in this body. It's going to take a little longer to get that feeling back, but hope blooms in her chest that she’ll be at peace with it someday.

**Author's Note:**

> Russian words! Thanks to google translate!
> 
> малютка = little one  
> привет мой маленький = hello my little one  
> херувимы = cherubs


End file.
